


Bane of the Doctor - Part 10: The Lab of Doctor Crane

by RodimusDoctor



Series: Bane of the Doctor [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Multiple Doctors (Doctor Who), Psychological Trauma, Science Fiction, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RodimusDoctor/pseuds/RodimusDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor's latest trip through the time anomalies in the Delirium Archive/Seventh Transept lands him in the Scarecrow's laboratory, where his seventh incarnation was tortured. He duels with Doctor Crane, and the 8th Doctor, Clara and River Song's hardlight projection arrive to help him. Realizing he is now right on Dirge Manson's doorstep, the Doctor steels himself for the confrontation soon to come...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bane of the Doctor - Part 10: The Lab of Doctor Crane

The Doctor shook his head to clear away the lingering effects of his travel through the vortex via the anomaly. For some reason, this trip had been different.

He rose to his knees, then to his feet. His vision cleared, allowing him to take in his current surroundings. Something he’d been getting used to recently.

He was in a lab; several tables, benches and work stations filled the room, their surfaces covered with test tubes, chemical containers and computer terminals. At the far end there was a door, with a sophisticated security device in the wall beside it.

Behind him, the Doctor knew he would find seven cells. And the seventh would be empty. This was without a doubt the room in which his seventh incarnation had been tortured.

As it turned out, all the cells were empty. The alien life forms he’d expected to find had apparently been removed.

One human remained in the lab, however. He stood up from his desk and stared at the Doctor through horn-rimmed glasses sitting on a beak-like nose, under a short mop of greasy hair.

The Doctor recognized him, even though he’d become more familiar with his mask.

“Well,” said Doctor Crane, “that explains a few things.”

“Does it, now?” said the Doctor. He felt his stomach tighten and his hearts race, but he forced himself to remain calm. He would not let fear get the better of him. Not this time. Not any more.

“I’d been told to avoid that exact spot at certain times of the day,” Dr. Crane explained. “Time anomalies or something, not really my area of expertise.” He stepped out from behind his terminal and began to approach the Doctor. As he did so, he put on his Scarecrow mask. “My employer, one Dirge Manson, instructed me that if I was ever to see someone emerge from the time vortex in exactly that spot, I am to contact him immediately.  
“And maybe I will.” The Scarecrow stopped two metres in front of the Doctor. “Who are you?”

“I’m Batman,” the Doctor replied, and the Scarecrow howled with laughter.

“Good answer!” the Scarecrow said. “But there is no way that you are the caped crusader, funny man. No, I think I know who you are.”

“And I know you, Doctor Crane,” the Doctor said. “And, judging by the way you carefully circumnavigated that workstation,” he indicated the desk on the Scarecrow’s right, “I know you have a healthy respect for the chemicals in those beakers. And you are right to be, because combined I’m sure they are quite ghastly, am I right? Of course I am. And do you know what would happen if you hit those beakers with a sonic pulse?” His screwdriver was already in his hand. “This!” He pointed and activated the sonic, and all three beakers shattered. The Scarecrow ducked and covered his head as the chemicals combined into a foul-smelling, thick gas that billowed outward from the workstation like instant fog.

The Doctor ran around the desks and made for the door. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done – he’d hoped for a distraction, and boy had he got one – but he doubted it would keep the Scarecrow occupied for very long.

He was right. A beam of energy struck him in the back, and the Doctor fell to the floor. His screwdriver flew out of his hand, bounced off the door and rolled away under a desk.

The Scarecrow approached, a gun in his hand. It must have been set to stun and/or paralyze, the Doctor reasoned, because he was still alive to reason it.

The Scarecrow coughed, violently. Whatever had been in those beakers hadn’t put him out of action, but it had played havoc with his lungs.

“That,” he said, “wasn’t pleasant.” And then he nearly collapsed in a coughing fit.

The Doctor could not respond. The weapon had left him conscious but unable to move or speak.

“Those chemicals,” the Scarecrow crouched beside him, holding his gun almost casually, “are for a different species entirely. Worked best on,” coughing fit, “worked best on the judoon. No desired effect on humans, but it will be at least a couple of days before I get it all out of my lungs. And even longer for my taste buds.” Another coughing fit. The Doctor knew he could have snatched the gun away from the Scarecrow, if he’d only been able to move.

“I am therefore disinclined to show you mercy, Doctor,” Dr. Crane went on. “Yes, I know who you are. Who else would you be?” He coughed again, then put the gun down on the floor. “Oh, I’ll let you live,” he stood up, and walked to one of his workstations. “Dirge would be most upset if I killed you.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened a fraction, as much as they were able. Dirge Manson was here.

“There is no reason at all,” the Scarecrow said, selecting a vial of blue fluid from the workstation, “why I can’t have some fun with you first.” He attached the vial to a weapon in his sleeve, then crouched down beside the Doctor once more. “Dance for me, Time Lord.”

He pointed the nozzle of his weapon and flicked his wrist, and his perfected fear gas filled the Doctor’s lungs.

 

“Brace yourself,” said the 6th Doctor in the 11th Doctor’s mind. “This will be Doctor Crane’s most potent, refined gas. You must...”

“Shut up,” the Doctor told the mental image of his younger self. “I can’t trust you, Sixey. You know why.”

“Yes, I could be your greatest fear, masquerading as an ally,” the 6th Doctor said. “Anything your mind conjures could...”

“I said,” the Doctor stared gravely at him, “shut up. I will face my fear alone.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” his earlier self said.

The Doctor ignored him.

“Without my advice, you’ll fall,” the 6th Doctor told him. “Just like you did before.”

The Doctor continued to ignore him.

“You’ll be overwhelmed with terror, you’ll come apart...”

“The gas will have taken effect by now,” the Doctor turned to face him again, “so if you were my mental ally, you’d be gone. You’re the gas, and you’re nothing but hot air.”

“Fair enough,” the 6th Doctor said, and he changed. It wasn’t a regeneration; more of a morph. His multi-coloured jacket became tweed, his yellow pants dimmed to brown, and his cravat became a bow tie. His hair straightened and receeded, and his face became that of:

“The Dream Lord,” the Doctor said.

“Correct!” the entity in question replied.

“But you’re no more real than Sixey was,” the Doctor said. “You never were. You’re the best the Scarecrow’s gas can conjure up?”

“I am more real than you know, Doctor,” the Dream Lord said. “Let me tell you a theory you have in here, a possibility you’ve been suppressing ever since you learned who Dirge Manson really is.”

He spoke. The Doctor listened.

And in the world outside of his head, his eyes widened and he trembled with horror. He tried to scream, but could only manage a strangled moan.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?” the Scarecrow said, clasping his hands under his chin and spinning ballet-style on one foot.

Which was why he saw the blue shape that had appeared in the lab behind him. He read the words Police Box, and wondered if this era’s law enforcement had come for him. More likely they were after Manson, but they weren’t likely to ignore his complicity. Especially with a quivering lump of evidence at his feet.

The box opened, and a curly-haired woman stepped out and advanced on him. She did not appear to be wearing any kind of uniform, but the Scarecrow wasn’t taking any chances. He raised his arm and sprayed her full in the face.

She walked straight through the fear gas and punched him hard in the jaw. The Scarecrow collapsed to the floor, out cold.

“Doctor!” River cried. She knelt at his side and laid her hands on his shoulders, then gave him a shake.

“Is it safe to come out now?” Clara called from the Tardis, the door ajar by half an inch.

“Not for cowards,” River replied. She shook the Doctor’s shoulders again, then slapped him in the face. No response.

“Stop that!” Clara marched out of the Tardis and advanced on River. “Don’t you dare hit him again.” The 8th Doctor followed her, closing the Tardis doors behind him.

“I’ll slap him if he needs slapping,” River said, not turning around.

“No you will not,” Clara stopped behind River, then shoved her with her foot. That got River’s attention; she turned her head to look up at Clara, then slowly rose to her feet.  
“Are you going to stop me?” she asked. “Little girl?”

“Yes,” Clara said.

“How, exactly?”

“Like this.” Clara reached over her right shoulder, and the 8th Doctor placed his sonic screwdriver in her hand. River’s eyes widened, but before she could react further Clara sonicked her and switched off her holo-projector’s hard light drive. River vanished, and the projector fell and bounced off the Doctor’s rib cage.

“Ow,” he said, and he rubbed the sore spot. And then he rubbed his cheek.

“Doctor!” Clara knelt beside him, where River had just been. “Can you move? Are you all right?”

“Only just,” the Doctor replied, rubbing his cheek some more. “I’m definitely feeling the aftereffects of a River slap. Clever teamwork, you two.” He picked up the holoprojector. “River does seem in need of a time out, or something. The Scarecrow?”

“She took care of him,” said the 8th Doctor, crouching beside Clara and taking his sonic back. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” the 11th Doctor admitted, pocketing the holoprojector. “I had a lungful of that gas, and it put a nasty possibility into my head.”

“You’re lucky to be coherent,” his younger incarnation said. He stood back up, and took in his surroundings properly. “I remember the gas being very long-lasting.” As he spoke, his hands started to shake and his hearts sped up.

“I must have built up an immunity,” the 11th Doctor said. “Otherwise I’d still be hallucinating. As it is...”

“Doctor!” Clara shouted, standing and taking hold of the 8th Doctor as he began to collapse.

“No!” the 8th Doctor cried. “Not here... not this... you!”

On the floor, the Scarecrow had begun to stir. He looked up and saw the Doctor looking down at him with murder in his eyes and hate marring his features.

“Steady on, young man,” the older incarnation said. “Remember who we are.”

The 8th Doctor closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

The Scarecrow lifted his right arm and sprayed him in the face. The Doctor fell backward, screaming, while the Scarecrow leapt to his feet. He spun around and looked down at the 11th Doctor, raised his arm once more, and took a stool in the back of the head. He fell, unconscious once more, and Clara put the stool down and rushed to the 8th Doctor’s side.

“Get him into the Tardis,” the 11th Doctor said as he rose shakily to his feet. “Help him recover, I’ll be right there.” He’d dropped his screwdriver, and there was no getting out of the lab without it.

Unless, of course, someone opened the door from the other side. Three ogrons stormed into the lab, brandishing disruptors. Two of them grabbed the Doctor, and the third aimed his disruptor at the Tardis.

Clara shoved the 8th Doctor into his Tardis, then ducked as the ogron’s blast hit the door behind her. She dashed inside and slammed both doors, then breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe in here...

“Gaah! No, no, nooo!”

...with a fear-crazed Doctor. The 8th Doctor thrashed around, screaming at his terrors. Then he got his hands on a hatstand, and he wielded it like a club.

“No! Not again!” he cried, and smashed his antique record player. Another swing, and his rocking chair was kindling.

Oh dear, Clara thought as she climbed to her feet. She had to stop his rampage before he did any damage to the console controls. Or himself.

“You!” the Doctor pointed an accusing finger at her. “Never again. Never!”

Or her, she added, turning to run.

 

“You no run!” one of the two ogrons barked as he and his colleague dragged the 11th Doctor down the hall and away from the lab. The third ogron remained behind to guard the Tardis.

“You go where we say!” said the other ogron.

“Why don’t you point out that resistance is futile?” the Doctor suggested. “There’s a reason it’s a classic.”

In spite of his outward bravado, inside the Doctor was anxious. He was about to have a confrontation with Dirge Manson, he was sure of it. But he wasn’t sure he was ready. Of course, since when did being ready have anything to do with it? He would always leap into the fray, confident he’d have a plan by the time he’d finished talking.

But this time was different. This man had spent his entire life hating him, and planning a very careful and complex revenge.

This man had broken him. The Doctor couldn’t remember all the details, but he knew in his hearts that Dirge Manson had gotten past all his defences. His reaction to River’s story back in the Delirium Archive had been proof enough.

“Or how about, one more word and we’ll shoot?” the Doctor went on. “It won’t work, but you’ll feel better for having said it.”

“Move!” the first ogron said, shoving the Doctor with his disruptor.

“That’s more like it,” the Doctor said. “Keep ‘em coming.”

They came to a room, whose door was just as unremarkable as all the others in the hallway. And, like the others, it had a keypad for the lock. The Doctor watched as one of his guards punched in the combination – 24159. Not that hard to remember.

“In!” said the ogron, opening the door and gesturing with his gun. The Doctor took a deep breath to steel himself, then he spun around and backed in.

“When can I expect tea?” he asked. The ogrons grunted and slammed the door in his face.

“Not for a while, then,” the Doctor added, and he turned to face his enemy.

Dirge Manson was not in the room. It seemed to be both a screening room and jail cell; there was a large screen dominating the far wall with a chair positioned in front of it, and the room also contained a toilet, a sink, and a small cot. On that cot lay a skinny naked man. He lay in the fetal position, clutching his legs to his chest, his bruised back facing the Doctor.

“Oh dear,” the Doctor hurried over to the cot, removing his tweed blazer as he came. The skinny, bruised man was shivering badly; the Doctor laid his coat over him. “What have they done to you, poor fellow?”

The broken man looked up at him with wild, terrified eyes.

“Please... don’t let the bad man hurt me,” the 10th Doctor said.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming Soon:
> 
> Bane of the Doctor - Part 11: The Doctor, Broken
> 
> Read my (non-fan) fiction! I am the author of The Cupid War (http://www.amazon.ca/Cupid-War-Timothy-Carter-ebook/dp/B005IX5GJO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405811484&sr=1-1) and The Five Demons You Meet In Hell (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/367849).


End file.
